Authors: Kathryn Le Veque
Morgan mopped his trencher with a
piece of bread. "He's got a genuine strain, but I would not go so far to
say that he is lame. Artur has made a healing mash and has the leg securely
wrapped. I suppose time will tell."
As Antony crawled about his
master's neck, his beady eyes glittering in the faint illumination, Bose poured
himself more ale. "Will you avoid the joust altogether and simply
concentrate on the melee?"
Morgan nodded, consuming the last
of his meal as the faint rumble of commotion of the tournament field grew
louder. "One fool with a misaimed blow and my charger would be ruined for
good."
Bose digested the statement,
bobbing his head in agreement. "I shall miss you, then. But we will be
unbeatable in the melee."
Morgan drained the remaining ale
from his cup. "Against Breck Kerry?"
"Against them all. We will
be invincible this day."
"Even against Lance du
Bonne? It is, after all, his day of celebration. Mayhap you should allow the
lad to win, just this once."
Bose stared at Morgan a moment;
the mere mention of the du Bonne name had been enough to remind him of the
elusive du Bonne maiden and, once again, he found himself recollecting her
radiant vision.
"Did you know the du Bonne
brothers have a sister?" he asked casually, stroking Antony's fur when the
animal scampered down his arm.
Rising from the collapsible
chair, Morgan grunted as he stretched his tautly-muscled body. "Nay, I had
no such knowledge," he cast a glance as he twisted from side to side.
"What about her?"
Bose shrugged, laboring to appear
blasé in manner. "Nothing, I suppose,” he said. “I met her today when we
entered the gates. Lance and Ian were chasing her about with pig-masks over
their faces, creating a deplorable spectacle. Were I Edward du Bonne, I would
lock the lads in the vault for a week or so. That would do enough to age their
juvenile spirits."
Morgan snorted at the mental
vision of Lance and Ian du Bonne with pig-masks over their faces. "Good
Lord, what an exhibition. Were those two not such excellent fighters, I would
consider them most useless."
"Useless indeed.”
Since Morgan had no helpful
knowledge regarding the enigmatic Summer du Bonne, Bose let the subject rest
for the moment. Moreover, the melee was rapidly approaching and he needed his
focus to prepare for the rough and glorious event. Not strangely, however, it
was difficult to force her from his mind as he went about the necessary tasks.
It seemed that with every subsequent recollection, it became more and more
difficult to rid himself of her consuming memory. God's Beard, he had scarcely
met the woman and already he was unable to forget her. But forget he must if he
was going to be of any use in the melee and subsequent joust… until he
remembered she would be in attendance.
Oddly enough, his words to
Stephan came back to haunt him.
The only chance you will have against me at
the tourney is if your sister attends the games.
Surely her beauty will
distract me so terribly that a mere knave will be able to best me.
He realized it was the truth.
CHAPTER
THREE
"Come along, Summer,"
Genisa's squeaky voice was crisp. "The du Bonne men will not wait for our
feminine truancy. If we are late, they shall simply leave us behind."
Hovering before a long mirror
made of rare polished glass, Summer stroked her silken honey-blond hair with a
heavy horse-bristle brush. Using her hands, she curved the lengthy ends into
fat curls, knowing the waves would not remain so entirely tame throughout the
day's activities and wondering why she was attempting to make the well-groomed
effort.
But it was a joyful effort
nonetheless, considering the event of her very first tournament was less than
an hour away. Her excitement was thrilling and debilitating at the same time,
and she fought to contain both nerves and nausea.
"Summer, what are you
staring at? We are going to be late!" Frustrated that her pleas were going
ignored, Genisa endeavored to relay the seriousness of the situation. Clad in a
gown of ice-blue with her pale blond hair properly secured in a bejeweled net,
she looked ravishing. "Certainly, if you brush your hair any more, you are
going to pull yourself bald. Put the brush aside. We are expected."
The brush stopped in mid-stroke as
Summer continued to gaze at herself, half-listening to her Genisa's demands and
half-ignoring them. Tardy or no, what mattered most at the moment was her
outward appearance and she would not proceed before properly and precisely
prepared. As Genisa prodded and pleaded, a soft knock echoed against the
chamber door.
"You see?" Genisa
raised her hands in the air in a beseeching gesture as she moved for the oak
panel. "That is Stephan and he shall blister our hides for this
delay."
True to her prediction, Stephan
was indeed lodged in the open doorway. Although his handsome features were
somewhat perturbed, he nonetheless tapped his wife affectionately on the chin
as he entered the feminine chamber.
"We are waiting to escort
you to the field, ladies," he said, eyeing his sister still poised before
the mirror. "Are you ready?"
Genisa looked to Summer, a golden
goddess from head to toe. When the woman refused to answer, she sighed
delicately. "Aye, darling, we are ready. Aren't we, Summer?"
After a moment's reluctance,
Summer nodded and set the brush to a table beside her. Clutching a delicately
embroidered handkerchief to stave off the unseasonable warmth, she smiled
bravely.
"Aye Stephan. We are
ready."
He smiled faintly, offering one
elbow to his sister and the other to his wife. Escorting the ladies down the
smoke-stenched corridor, they descended the wide stairs into the stone-walled
entry. Just as they dismounted the last stair, a rotund, cumbersome figure
emerged from the shadows in a harried burst of fine silks and wool.
"Great Gods, ladies,” he
exclaimed. “The games are nearly ready to begin."
Summer forced a smile at the
ruddy man, his sparse hair the color of her own. Releasing her brother's elbow,
she claimed the man's fleshy arm in a reassuring gesture. "Calm yourself, Father.
The games cannot b-begin without you."
In spite of his agitation, Edward
du Bonne could not help but smile at his youngest child. The beautiful girl his
wife had perished giving life to, a child so delicate and lovely that he had stared
at her for three straight days after her birth in awe and wonder. A female
child completely unexpected after three healthy boys, so unanticipated that no
feminine names for such an occurrence had been discussed.
Edward's wife had been positive
that her fourth child was male. After all, there was little doubt since the
three preceding pregnancies had resulted in a herd of strong du Bonne sons.
Therefore, on a warm summer's eve eighteen years ago, Edward had been faced
with a most pressing decision. Beyond the natural grief of losing his wife, he
was forced to select a name for the unexpected female offspring who had claimed
her mother's existence.
The baron, unfortunately, was not
a clever or particularly attentive man. And he was in obvious lack of the concern
or energy to contemplate his new daughter's name. Giving the child over to an
older female servant and her spinster daughter, he delegated them the task of
naming and caring for his newest, if not particularly wanted, child. The two
aging women, unable to think of a properly suitable name and fearful of
displeasing the temperamental baron with a less than appropriate selection,
made the most convenient, if not logical, selection; Summer Evening du Bonne.
A name, in fact, that was perfect
for her. She was as warm and beautiful as the summer months, soft and fresh and
radiant. Even now as the earl gazed into dark golden orbs, he could scarcely
recall ever seeing a finer creature. It was a cruel twist of fate that her
beauty was marred by a disturbing speech impediment, for she would have made a
very fine marriage match for the du Bonne family. Edward had resigned himself
to the fact that his beautiful daughter would never know the experience of
decent marriage, and for that he was truly sorry.
The day was warming as the damp
sea breeze caressed the dusty grounds of Chaldon as Edward, Summer, Stephan and
Genisa quit the dark-stoned bastion and made their way outside. Summer's
delicious hair whipped about her like a frenzied lover and she struggled to keep
it at bay, knowing the over-brushed curls were vanished and wishing she was
married if only so she would have been able to net the unruly mass as Genisa
did. As a maiden, however, it was customary to keep one’s head uncovered to
show the beauty of a maiden’s hair.
As the small party neared the
edge of the bailey, the tournament field came into focus and Summer forgot all
about her misbehaving hair. Her focus was completely on the distant cluster of
colorful tents, the faint hum of the crowd, and the thunder of the chargers as
knights took in a few bouts of last-minute practice.
Somewhere in the distance, a lute
and lyre could be heard entertaining the throng and Summer was about to comment
on the beauty of the song when a great black banner caught her attention. It
was the same black banner that had saved her from a pig-masked fate. She turned
to Stephan.
"Is that de Moray's
b-banner?" she asked.
Distracted from a game of
slap-and-tickle with his wife, Stephan passed a glance at the towering
standard. "Aye," he replied, casting his sister a curious glance.
"How did you know his name?"
Summer pursed her lips wryly.
"Good Heavens, Stephan, you spoke the man's name and it was only obvious
that I should hear you," turning from her brother, she once again eyed the
flapping colors. "Who is he?"
Stephan took a contemplative
breath, adjusting his pinching helm. "God's Beard, where to begin? What is
it you wish to know?"
She cocked her head thoughtfully.
"Everything. For example, do you know how he acquired his unusual
name?"
Stephan shrugged. "Mayhap it
is an old, well-used family name."
"B-Bose," Summer
repeated softly, drawing out the long 'o' until the name sounded like 'Bow-z'.
"Where does he come from?"
"He has a keep outside of
Salisbury called Ravendark, and he's been on the tournament circuit for four
years," finding a comfortable position for his helm, Stephan once again
glanced to the foreboding standard. "Until he joined our ranks, my
competition was limited. Now I am lucky if I run a close second to de Moray's
talents."
Strangely, Summer felt a good
deal of pleasure at that statement. Her brother was praising the man who had
saved her from certain torment and she smiled faintly, feeling oddly attached
to the fearsome black banner. "What is that on his standard? I do not
recognize the s-symbol."
Stephan, disinterested in
speaking of a man he would very shortly be competing against, kissed his wife's
hand fondly before lowering his visor. "'Tis a Gorgon."
"A Gorgon?"
"Aye," Stephan's voice
was muffled behind the steel protection. "They call de Moray the Gorgon
because he is massive and dark and ugly. Therefore, the term has become his
crest."
Summer’s brow furrowed. “I
b-believe I have heard of a Gorgon. Isn’t that a demon?”
Stephan nodded. “Greek demons. Oddly
enough, however, they are female, but the very name means ‘dreadful’, which
describes de Moray perfectly.”
Summer's smile faded as he looked
to her brother. Somehow, in calling de Moray ugly, it was inferring that he was
imperfect. Flawed. Just like she was, in a sense - her imperfect speech against
his imperfect looks. But having never seen the man's face through his lowered
visor, she had no way of disputing Stephan's claim. After a moment, she turned
away and refocused her attention on the field before her.
"How cruel," she
murmured. "You should not taunt him for his lack of b-beauty."
Stephan snorted, catching a
glimpse of his charger near the small tent bearing the red and white du Bonne
colors. "You have yet to see the man, Summer. Just because he saved you
from Ian and Lance's foolery, do not permit yourself to have any romantic
notions regarding his magnificent knightly appearance. In spite of that fact
and other nasty rumors regarding his reputation, however, he has no shortage of
admirers."
Feeling somewhat defensive on the
knight's behalf, Summer frowned at her arrogant brother. "Rumors that are
lies, I am sure. Sir B-bose is noble and chivalrous, unlike several other
knights I know who shall remain nameless. Women are able to sense good within a
man regardless of his physical appearance."
"That is not the reason, my
ingenuous little sister," Stephan said patronizingly, waving to his squire
to let the boy know he was on the approach. "The women who pursue de Moray
are simply interested in his wealth and nothing more. With all the winnings he has
acquired over the four years of tournament play, he is amply loaded with the
stuff and the wealth alone is enough to outweigh the darker implications of his
name."